


The Disappearance of Benjamin Baggins

by DragonsinGondolin



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Detective Story, M/M, Victorian era, slowest of burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-09-09 05:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8878150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonsinGondolin/pseuds/DragonsinGondolin
Summary: “It isn’t very difficult to understand, Mr Oakenshield,” said she, and her voice was more akin to a shriek, high-pitched and failing completely in its attempt to sound gentry, “my husband’s cousin is gone. He went away and is certainly dead by now. You need not worry yourself with finding him.” “You must understand that Benjamin has always been a peculiar sort,” she continued, adding insult to injury, “Living in such a big place all by himself for so long must have played a great part in that. He is solitary and – I dare barely say – unsocial, which is almost a sin for someone in his social position.”





	1. Chapter 1

The old clock of the parlour was producing its annoying tick tack. As was the case with practically everything in the room, its sound was obnoxious. The colours of the wallpaper were too vivid, the pattern of shimmering purple parrots atrocious, and seemed ready to give anyone setting foot inside the room a headache. His was starting to build, as a matter of fact. The armchairs were of a soft green that could have been appeasing for the eye, but had the misfortune to appear in the same room as the aforementioned wallpaper. With the ‘lovely’ addition of a collection of tomato red and bottle green pillows, and a red and blue Persian carpet, it just made any newcomer feel nauseous. The room was, on top of everything else, stacked with a collection of knick-knacks and whatnots, all absolutely ugly and probably terribly expensive, some souvenirs brought from France or Italy, or wherever fashionable, arranged in great wooden shelves which took up most of the room. It was all too much, too many furniture, too many colours. There seemed to be very little space left in the room for the air to pass through. It felt stuffed, compact, oppressing. He had to breathe in a few times before he could talk again, and even then he sounded breathless.

 

“I am not entirely sure to understand, Madam.”

 

His eyes fell on the owner of the room, presently seated in one of the green armchairs. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was not misplaced in the middle of the room. No, in fact she belonged entirely to this obnoxious and stuffed atmosphere. Her clothes were as hilariously inadequate in their form or colours as the rest of the furniture. He had a theory that people ended up looking like their interior, perhaps more than their interior actually reflected their personalities. She was one of the many examples confirming this idea he had built in his career.

She was short and round in built, everything about her looking soft but lacking any trace of subtlety. It was not that she seemed a little rough, or was too inhabited by passion, no. This would have actually been easier to forgive. She seemed too rigid, and her behaviour was too affected, fake even. Her face, round too and with pleasant features, was spoiled by her severity and the condescending air she had about her, and it was hard to feel attracted to the beautiful dark brown of her eyes, deep and rich in texture, when it was framed by such a hard brow, mirroring the lines at the corner of her mouth, and when the look she was perpetually casting on the world was nothing but judgmental.

 

“It is not very difficult to understand, Mister Oakenshield,” said she, and her voice was more akin to a shriek, high-pitched and failing completely in its attempt to sound gentry, “my husband’s cousin is gone. He went away and is certainly dead by now. You need not worry yourself with finding him.”

 

An icy sensation washed through his body, for her words were so cold and contemptuous that they sounded cruel. He could not imagine himself speaking in such a tone about his family. And if one added the dismissal with which the lady’s husband had welcomed his attempt at conversation, going as far as to snort when he mentioned the motive of his visit, then one could draw a draft of the Baggins family portrait already, but it would not be at all flattering.

Otto Sackville-Baggins was a very urban gentleman, the son of a second son of a potent and renown aristocratic family who had found a good position in a bank in London, to make up for his lack of personal property on his family lands. He had gained quite the fortune however by contracting – and the word is an accurate one – a marriage void of affection, but not of respect, with the daughter of a rich wine merchant, Lobelia Bracegirdle. Not strictly speaking a misalliance, but many had whispered about such a union based on naught but money. It turned out that the couple was very well assorted, indeed, as they both had a common ambition which was… well… ambition.

They were both extremely displeased by the stubborn insistence of their cousin, the current tenant of the family’s wealth and title, on living, which certainly explained their lack of helpfulness in his case. Still, it made something in his guts constrict.

 

“You must understand that Benjamin has always been a peculiar sort,” she continued, adding insult to injury, “Living in such a big place all by himself for so long must have played a great part in that. He is solitary and – I dare barely say – unsocial, which is almost a sin for someone in his social position.”

 

She was leaning towards him now with a conspirator air. He managed to stifle a sigh. How many times someone had told him some – no doubt for them – savoury gossip, mistaking them with an actual hint to help his searching, let alone an actual proof of anything. But he steeled himself, used as he was to endure the insignificant secrets. Beside, it could not hurt to gather any bit of information he could find. Near the door was a crystal vase on a marquetry table, and the odour of the hydrangeas in it made it hard for him to focus on her voice, his mind lulled by fatigue and a pinch of a headache, but he tried to do his best to listen.

 

“Some even say that he has gone unbalanced in the head.”

“Who says so?” he questioned abruptly, for he was surprised that she had dared uttered this sort of slander in front of a complete stranger and wanted to test the strength of the revelation.

“Domestics, farmers who tend the lands, townsmen. I am not sure. It is of no import.”

“It is for my searching, Madam.”

“Oh. Indeed.”

 

She seemed to ponder on that for a moment. She was a smart woman, for all that she was too prompt to form judgment on and against others. In that intellectual aspect, she seemed already a step higher than her husband, who had looked rather limited in his capacities. A pity she was so shallow in her understanding and consideration of her fellow humans, he reflected. What a powerful and subtle lady she would have made. She seemed to emerge from her thoughts.

 

“Well, then go question his domestics at Bag End, but I do not imagine they will have much more to tell you than me.”

“I’ll do, Madam. I thank you for your time.”

 

He doubted that domestics would not know more, but of course he would not tell her. Domestics notice everything that happens in a house, but are never given enough credit and consideration for it. They just do not care to tell who does not care to listen, is all. He knew how to get them to talk, however, most of the time. He gave an abrupt nod to salute her, and turned heels to reach the door. Just as the little handmaid was going to open it for him, the voice of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins rose again, and he turned to look at her.

 

“Benjamin is gone. There is little you can do for it,” she seemed to hesitate, and something flashed for a fleeting moment in her eyes before she said, though it was in a low voice and more for herself then for the world, “but at least we would know what happened.”

 

He exited the room, puzzling over this last remark. A pang of sympathy at last? One more proof of morbid curiosity and inclination towards gossip? What was the meaning of it exactly? He sighed, following the maid in the entrance, and soon found himself out of the Kensingtonian residence and onto the paved street. He did not really care about the answer to this question, ultimately. What mattered to him the state of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins’s conscience? He already had his own to think about. Beside, he was not known to be an extremely philanthropic person. Not that he would have had the means to be so. Only rich and idle men could afford to be philanthropists, he considered. Others were too busy making a living and caring about feeding themselves. No, he did not care for other people’s misfortunes, as paradoxical as it was for someone whose income relied mainly on those. But this was work and it had to remain separated from his own life and feelings.

 

He hailed a cab to go back home. He found he had no patience for walking in the cold and dirty streets of the city, bothered and shoved by people, and he had too much work to lose time with a _promenade_. He took only a short minute to gaze at some birds flying in the sky of London. Pigeons, probably. He then closed the curtain, isolating himself from the nasty air of the capital and allowing only the clatter of horseshoes on the pavement and the faint buzzing of London’s industrious people to connect him with the outside world. This way, alone in the dim light, he was content.

 

It had been a busy day, after all. He couldn’t be blamed for wanting some time with himself as sole company to think.

 

When his new employer had surged into his life just the day before, it had been as if a ghost had entered the room. Part of this was certainly due to the grey colour the man was wearing from head to toe, in many layers and with a coat descending low over his legs as if it were a robe. Even the top-hat he was wearing was grey. What a singular way of dressing, not that he himself was a stranger to unconventional appearance, but he did not distinguish himself from the general crowd in terms of colours. Browns and black were still the best camouflage. The man, however, in the mist of London’s fog, made for a spectral apparition. It had reminded him of this tale by Master Dickens that his nephews had been so adamant he read to them some times ago, and begged him to read again almost each week until they grew too bored of it. If the man was not the ghost of Marley itself, then it was very akin to it in his sudden apparition out of nowhere. It simply lacked the chains.

The other reason why it had felt like a supernatural event was – and perhaps this was actually the most likely explanation – that the man and his own father had been acquaintances. It was a long time ago and felt like centuries. As all of his father’s ‘friends’, this one had disappeared and left them to fend for themselves when the great calamity had befallen them. Seeing him on his doorsteps after such a long time had been unexpected, and thus almost impossible to believe. The ghost of something past. All things considered, he would have probably liked to see an actual ghost best.

As it were, the evanescent Doctor Gideon Greyheim was no ghost but a very lively old gentleman with rather good manners and a dignified air about him, which were contradicted by his way of unceremoniously waltzing into people’s lives to turn them upside down until they could not remember what it was like before. Apart from the very specific choice of colour already noted, his clothes were very practical and a bit worn out, but they spoke more of a person who travelled than of a person with little means, for they were of a good quality without any doubt. Financially, the fellow was likely well off, he was certain of that. Which was why he finally decided to hear him despite the bitterness he had felt upon seeing the old acquaintance again. Money could not be refused in his position.

 

The affair was overall not a complicated one, he had decided. Some fancy person had disappeared, and his family did not seem overly eager to find him, a fact that his visit to the Sackville-Baggins the following morning had confirmed. Doctor Greyheim on the other hand, was absolutely determined to find what had happened to him. He had been a close friend of the missing gentleman’s mother and could not bear the idea of letting her only son disappear without doing any sort of investigation. He had, at this point, to prevent himself from uttering some unfortunate remark on how he had not had the same consideration for him and his siblings, all those years ago. He refrained barely, and had to grit his teeth and divert his eyes to the mantelpiece to find his countenance. Unfortunately, Greyheim had continued without seeming to notice the sudden shift in his mood, he lacked the time and liberty of movement that such a quest would require.

And this was when he himself came onto the scene, apparently. The good Doctor had some nerve to ask this from him, of all people.

 

And yet here he was the day after, searching the depth of his study for the old map of England’s shires he was sure to possess but could not for the life of him remember the location of. There were too many drawers in this room, he thought to himself, eyeing the fashionable cornflower-coloured wallpaper his landlord had insisted on having installed as if it held the answer to his question. Of course, even Dorian Rydder for all his delicate tastes did not possess the power to inspire people through beautifully crafted Indian wallpaper. And yet, the delicate patterns of soft blue anemones was relaxing to gaze at. He smiled at that, the older man’s dissatisfied expression flashing before his eyes, the same one he bore whenever something led him to enter his realm. Mostly, he preferred keeping to his own ground floor. Rheumatism, he had explained in a sigh the first time they met, as he gave him a tour of the flat. “Nasty things, those”, he had nodded to himself, “oh to be young again as you are, Master Oakenshield”. Seeing how Mister Rydder was still a force of nature and possessed a formidable strength, he wondered what it would have been if the man was not affected by such a condition. Some Hercules no doubt. Their first encounter had been well over a decade ago. He had never felt the need to find another lodging. He was by nature a homebody, resolutely attached to his own safe and known place. Beside, he had come to appreciate Dorian’s company, in his own special way. Not that he was an extremely affectionate person, but he was as loyal in his friendship as he was cautious in giving it. Dorian had earned all of it.

The lodging suited him well, and for a fair price. It was nothing grand nor sophisticated, but it was clean and spacious enough for a single man. Dorian always made sure to refresh the decoration or furniture when they started to decay, and there was therefore no reason to complain. He had always been rather frugal in his life style anyway. His past had made sure he learnt to.

 

But it was of no use to dwell on this now. No use at all.

 

He found the map stuck between two books in the bibliotheca. It was dusty and perhaps a bit outdated, but it would provide him with the information he needed all the same. He spread it on his desk, scrutinizing it carefully, searching for the place both his employer and the lady had mentioned when they met. Bag End Manor. There it was, some miles from Winchcombe, Gloucestershire, a solitary house and its dependences on top of a hill, overlooking acres and acres of lands still owned by the family and tended to by local farmers. The Baggins family was wealthy, especially compared to so many aristocratic families which had found themselves needing to form marriages with rich commoners to maintain their hilariously gigantic domains. But everything had passed to only one man, the very one about whom he had to trouble himself. This explained his cousin Otto’s resentment and lack of sympathy, though it did not excuse his ambitious and greedy apathy. It is a sad thing, he contemplated, to live with the knowledge that your closest kin would rather see you dead.

 

He spent the rest of his afternoon carefully planning his visit to Bag End Manor. He did not like to be unprepared, and he had no idea how the domestics there would receive him. He knew how to mingle with them and detect what was left unsaid in their conversations. He knew their world very well. But he was a stranger to the land, and how would they react to him searching in their Master’s life and poking his nose into his business? Would mentioning Lobelia Sackville-Baggins’s approval of his coming help his case, or would it on the contrary anger them? And Doctor Greyheim? What were their thoughts on him, if they were aware of his existence at all?

He went to bed wondering about the best approach to adopt. He could plan the material aspects of the matter as much as he wanted, but it would not give him any clue for the psychological part. He would need to see when he got there. He was used to it, he would work it out.

 

He spent his night turning and tossing, his dreaming mind going back to the case in a sort of semi-consciousness. Was he sleeping or was he awake, it was hard to tell. At some point he probably succumbed to slumber, for he found himself running in a very familiar corridor, and he felt something like burning on his nose and tongue. But it felt all too real and he was trapped into the nightmare as he was in the long and narrow corridor. When he eventually woke up completely, the sun was not yet up and he realised he had sweated during the night.

 

The illustrated London News provided him with an explanation of this, at least. Reading it over breakfast was part of his everyday routine. He liked the pictures, and it usually gave honest and well-detailed accounts of the latest events, from the most mundane to the most sordid. He was not in any way fond of macabre stories, but just as the gossips he had to gather from witnesses in his searching, they were the kind of information that could incidentally help a case. Whether he liked it or not was irrelevant. He had to do his job, even if that meant digging into the least pleasant mud of the country.

What made the front page this particular morning, and instantly attracted his attention, was the account of a terrible fire that had threatened to burn Tower Hamlets during the night. It had been stopped on time, leaving only a block of buildings destroyed, but it could have expanded to the whole district if not for the quick action of the Irish who lived there and the close proximity of the Thames. A fire. Shivers ran down his spine as he stared blankly at the engraving showing smoke and buildings collapsing, lost in the hard black lines on the paper.

He stood up from the table, tugging at the collar of his shirt nervously, and went to open the window. It was not the best solution to his distress, as the morning air still reeked of the acrid fire and made him choke and cough more than it gave him the much needed oxygen. His forehead pressed against the cold glass of the window, he willed his breath to even slowly. It was a difficult thing to do, but he was used to those access of panic and had learnt how to control them with time. He did not have the choice. He could not afford to let fear take control.

 

He had too much work to allow this to happen, he reminded himself as he put on his coat and grabbed his suitcase, after managing to calm down his raging thoughts and breathing. Indeed there was much work to accomplish, and fear does not pay for one’s food and rent.

 

The journey to Gloucestershire by train was not excessively long, thought it did take him the whole morning. He just needed to change in Bristol, but all in all it was easy enough. He did not mind travelling. Most people around him were reading. Newspapers and, for a few of them, those cheap literature papers they had started selling in train stations for some time. But some people were engaged in conversation with their neighbours, whether family members or complete strangers. Conversation was not yet killed by the transports, contrary to a widespread assumption.

But he was not talking, nor reading. He was more interested in the landscape that spread through the window. Large plains and rolling hills, blue or grey skies, houses and animals, were not the most exciting of entertainments, but their uniformity and familiarity lulled his mind into a sense of comfort which allowed his thoughts to expand and fill the very air, as if physically exposed in front of his eyes for him to examine at leisure. There he could review what information he had gathered, try to put and classify them together as they should be, forming a logic from the seemingly chaotic mass of them. He knew exactly what was supposed to go with what, and where to stack them in his mind.

 

There was not much to consider yet, however.

 

Benjamin Baggins. What was there to say about him? He was rich, solitary, and had lost both his parents in an accident involving their carriage as a young boy. The event had been all over the news at the time. He remembered faintly about adults around him talking about it, for he had been a young boy too at the time. Which led him to consider that the man was probably around his own age. It was the most personal bit of information he possessed about him, he thought bitterly. The rest of it was mere knowledge about the man’s situation and place in the world, but it was not much and did not allow him to form any theory about his disappearance yet. It was all very thin and uncertain. A puff of smoke.

Mrs Sackville-Baggins had not told him enough to feed his reflexion further, except for her belief that he was losing his time, which said more about her than about her husband’s cousin. He was almost certain he was – losing his time that is – and had been even as he had accepted the job, to be fair to her. But he had accepted, after all, and he was not known for giving up. He would have his answers. Maybe Greyheim would be satisfied enough to pay him and disappear from his life once again. He would then be free from any fool’s errand chasing after people who probably did not want people to chase after them.

 

Perhaps he would find part of those answers in the man’s home. Certainly it would be more personal a searching than listening to people’s vague opinions. If the domestics had nothing to tell him, then at least he would be able to investigate the house. Sometimes, inanimate objects could tell you more about someone than people. Sometimes people actually know nothing about someone. It is a sad thing to know, but it happens more often than one would imagine. He hoped he wouldn’t have to resort to furniture as his only interlocutors, though.

 

This was his chain of thought when he set foot in Gloucester. It was a pleasant enough town, especially for someone who was so used to London’s stuffy air and crowding masses. He did not stay there for very long, however. He had not come for sight-seeing after all, even though the cathedral seemed to be a fine piece of architecture and certainly worth the visit. There was a line of carriages waiting in front of the station and he managed to find one willing to take him to Bag End Manor.

It was a rather long ride, but he took the opportunity to prepare his arrival and rehearse what he would say to the domestics. He had been told several times that his tall stature and noble bearing produced a striking first impression on people. He had to admit that, even though he was not fond of theatrical behaviour, he used this information to his advantage. Why not use the artifices that the Maker has provided you with, after all? He would use it to make his entrance at Bag End Manor, he decided.

 

As the carriage was slowly but steadily approaching the lands of the Baggins family, he exited his thoughts to scrutinize the environment, passing his head through the glassless window to cast a better look upon the landscape.

Green was the first word which came to his mind. There were rolling hills with luxurious vegetation and plentiful fields as far as his eyes could see. Little groups of trees were spotted here and there on the sides of dusty winding country roads, probably offering a refreshing shade for walkers. Sometimes wooden fences surrounded the fields, and sometimes the fields were not circled by any fence. Perhaps there was no need for them. Cattle were lying or browsing on a few of the fenced fields, looking perfectly placid, languid even. It felt peaceful and comfortable, far from the frenetic activity of the capital city.

He was not sure whether he liked the quiet and simple atmosphere, however. He was quite used to the industry of Londoners, their smell and their noise. This pastoral picture did not sit too well with the active man he was. It seemed all too idle and dull, and lacked some more dynamism. It was not that he hated it. It was just that it felt foreign and incomplete. The thought crossed his mind that if he had been in Baggins’s shoes, he would have gone mad and left earlier than the man had done. He dismissed it quickly. This were his views and he could not apply them to the man’s spirit, which was no doubt different than his, and more used to this environment.

 

The carriage moved around one of the groups of trees aforementioned and he was graced by the view of the Manor, at long last, standing at the end of a long alley of beeches.

The building itself was more akin to a castle, ways too immense to just be called a Manor in his opinion. He was not well versed in History, so he could not be sure of this, but it looked in his neophyte eyes to be Tudor in style, built with bricks that assumed a red, almost golden, tint under the lazy sun. He fancied it had been rebuilt on the grounds of an ancient house by the Duke contemporary of Henry VIII to serve as a haunt house of some sort. He had read that the Baggins family had known glories and decays in the past, ascending to power and fortune again with the beginning of the Tudor dynasty. It seemed logical that they would use their newly regained honour to build a new and fashionable – for the time – castle.

It had wide rectangular windows and a round archway probably leading to an inner court. He had always thought that there was something very peculiar but fascinating about Tudor castles. They were massive – stout one would say – but there was something slightly off with them more often than not, what with their turrets and awkward-looking chimneys. This one seemed to have been carved out following the same fashion as its siblings. It was flanked on its sides with symmetrical gardens made of short hedges and topiaries, flower bushes of soft pink and purple colours, and gravel paths.

The proportions of the building were monumental. He tried to make the mental gymnastic of calculating how many domestics were needed to maintain such a house, interiors and gardens, not to mention the laundry and the food. Most impressive indeed. The manor seemed to be particularly well-tended to, he mused as he exited the carriage and passed the iron gate with its acorns on top of the pillars – strange armorials to have, but there was no doubt some interesting tale pertaining to it and he made a mental note to ask about it later.

 

A robin passed in the sky above his head and went to land on the soft grass of the park. His eyes were drawn to the soft orange colour of its face and throat, the bird staring back at him too after a few seconds. They stayed like this, in mute contemplation of one another, for a while. The gentle breeze was ruffling the bird’s feathers slightly. It looked so small and innocent, and so colourful. He wondered if the bird was afraid of him, or simply curious. It did not seem frightened, but it obviously stayed cautious, its head tilted to the side and ready to fly away at any moment. It was an instant suspended in time similar to nothing that he could have experienced in the big megalopolis. It was something else, something outside the realm of everyday life, something with its own flow.

A loud noise coming from behind the garden wall and across the fields startled them both. The robin took off and he was looking at naught but the patch of green grass, the spell suddenly broken. He resumed his walk towards the house, focusing his thoughts back on what was awaiting him.

 

The ancient smell of roses greeted him when he reached the entrance of the Manor. Two majestic bushes of lavender roses framed the archway, vibrant and fragrant, arrogant in their full bloom. What an unusual colour. One would have expected red or even yellow roses, especially considering the distinctive Tudor architecture. Not that he was an expert in flowers. It was quite the opposite actually. He tended to have no patience for those growing things, being much more used to stone and metal himself. Once upon a time, those had made his family prosperous. But this was such a long time ago. There was nothing left from the delicate designs made of precious metals, and of the grand old _demeure_ of the north. As chimney sweepers come to dust.

 

He rang the bell before the heavy wooden door and waited for a sign of life to come from inside. As he was standing in the open air, he took the opportunity to gaze at the inner court of the Manor, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the gallery on the first floor and the colourful glasses of the windows. It truly was a beautiful house.

 

The door opened slowly and a young woman – thirty-five at most was his quick estimation – stood before him, looking at him with a welcoming expression on her face. Her dirty blond hair was kept in a neat bun and her dress, plain and practical as it was, was of a good quality and could not have been very old. The Baggins family treated their employees well, he gathered. It was not always the case.

He had seen domestics treated unfairly, scandalously even. Well, he had seen a lot more things done in the name of the powerful and the rich, and he was ashamed to say that he himself had been deceived to believe that this was how things were supposed to be. He was young at the time, very young, and did not know better than the elitist vision his education had taught him. His views had changed with time, however. The same could not be said about some – he hesitated to say most – of his contemporaries.

The short woman was now eyeing him with puzzlement and a pinch of suspicion, and he realised he had done nothing to introduce himself.

 

“Good morning sir. How can I help you?”

“My name is Thomas Oakenshield. I have been contacted to discover what happened to Lord Baggins.”

“You ain’t no man of Master Otto, are you?”

 

There was a contempt in her voice that she was trying to conceal under cautious respect but could obviously not. He could not fault her for it, though, and answered with the most reassuring smile he could conjure.

 

“No, I am not. I am here on behalf of Doctor Gideon Greyheim.”

 

She squinted her eyes slightly, as if trying to remember something – or perhaps she was trying to determine whether he was to be trusted or not – then nodded after a moment of staring at him silently.

 

“The Doctor is a good man. Strange indeed, I always tell Master Benjamin that… but the Master likes him and the Doctor has always been good to him. He was a friend of the Lady Belladonna, you know, his mother. Always a kind word to us too, bless his soul. Please come in, sir.”

 

She had said all of this in a fast but joyful voice which threw him off balance slightly. There was a strong determination in the way she was using the present tense in ‘I always tell’, as if her master had never left and was somehow going to appear at the top of the stairs to inquire about what was going on. And maybe it was her way to say that he would, indeed, reappear soon enough. Some sort of hopeful mantra perhaps.

All the while, she had opened the door further and was motioning for him to come inside cheerfully. He was a tad surprised with how quick she had warmed to him, all in the span of one single tirade, but he was not going to complain as it seemed to be working his way. Mentioning the Doctor had had its effect, after all. He had not seen any reasons not to on the spot, not wanting to invent any lie and trick the woman. It would not have been an honest start to his searching and he had learnt that it was always better to save lies for when they were strictly necessary.

 

Nevertheless, he entered the hall as she had bid him and took a look around the majestic entrance.

 

He had been expecting the inside of the Manor to mirror the outside, and to find the same Tudor pattern, and indeed the great staircase was modelled after that architectural style. It was of grand proportions, a mass of heavy and solid oak but of a surprisingly light brown colour, first reaching a half-floor overlooked by a massive window than climbing even further up to the first floor with its gallery. The whole structure of the room in its proportions, and the ceiling with apparent timber, evidently followed the same style. However, the decoration itself was resolutely modern. The vibrant green patterned wallpaper was of course a striking feature, probably replacing the _boiseries_ – that is to say, wooden panels – that must have been there before its renovation, and a crimson carpet was mapping the floor and climbed up the steps of the staircase. But there were also the furniture and massive chandeliers, the hunting trophies and huge paintings on the walls.

The contrast of the two styles was certainly interesting. He would not go as far as to call it pleasing for the eye, but it had a sort of amusing eccentricity to it, he had to admit, and it was all in all distinctively English which made it hard to form any sort of reproach despite its chimeric aspect.

 

“Oh, but I forgot to introduce myself! I’m Bell Gamgee.”

 

She curtsied, and he gave a little nod in reply.

 

“What do you need for your research, Mister Oakenshield?”

 

Her round face was soft and open, and as readable as a book. There was an earnestness and a natural kindness radiating from her features, so very different from Lobelia Sackville-Baggins’s own expression of disdain and severity. Her emotions were in plain sight and easy to witness even for a less trained eye than his. There was a worry resting slightly on her brows however. So she was indeed preoccupied by her master’s vanishing, his assumption was correct. Was the cheerfulness inherently part of her nature, though, or was it mainly a way to cope? He could not know exactly. Maybe it was both.

Many information could be useful for his searching, and many places to start looking were possible. But he had developed a procedure along the way of his career, and he had made a habit of following it. It allowed him to make the most of his searching in a limited amount of time, and usually led to the most useful hints to know how to proceed further and where to look next. His reply was therefor confident and matter-of-factly.

 

“I will need to see Lord Baggins’s study first. There could be papers to help me have an idea of the context in which he left, and with some luck of the reason why he did.”

“Of course, sir. If you would follow me.”

 

He followed after her across the hall and through an arch on the right side of the stairs. They found themselves in a long narrow corridor that seemed to take them, if the mental map he had of the manor was correct, to the side of the house that was facing south. He could not however be entirely sure of the fact given his own propensity to get lost. They could well be on their way to the north. As they were going a rather slow pace, he felt he could use the opportunity to ask her a question before reaching the study.

 

“Mrs Gamgee, if I may ask, do you remember the day Lord Baggins disappeared?”

“Oh, of course sir. It was only two months ago after all.”

“Good. Do you remember anything in particular? Something that was out of the ordinary, perhaps?”

 

Her pace slowed down some more, almost coming to a halt, as she was concentrating to remember any detail she could. She was obviously taking his question seriously, understanding its importance.

 

“Why, no sir. It was just like any other day. Although… it was raining heavily. Yes, I remembered thinking that it was not prudent for the Master to be out with this weather.”

“Did you see him get out? How was he looking?”

“Oh, I did not see him when he got out. I only saw him at breakfast, but that was two hours before he left and he did not look any different then. But my Alfred did see him in the garden.”

“Your… husband?”

“Yes.”

“I will need to ask him the same question, but after seeing the study.”

“Of course, sir.”

 

So… despite the heavy rain falling outside, something had made Benjamin Baggins exit his house. The man had not reappeared for two months afterwards, and was still missing to this day. It must have been something of the highest importance. This was certainly an interesting piece of news, and maybe he would be able to discover something in the study to form the beginning of a theory as to the circumstances of the Lord’s disappearance.  It would be a first step. A first step towards which destination, he did not know yet.

 

By this time, they had stopped in front of a door, and Bell was in the process of unlocking it with one of the keys she kept in a pocket of her apron. She opened the door and stepped aside to let him enter

 

The room was spacious and welcoming. Its ceiling was similar to that of the hall, with the timber supporting the upper floors, but unlike the hall, the walls had been kept in their historic condition, with _boiseries_ and giving an almost rustic aspect to the room. A massive fireplace stood at the far end of the room, framed by a delicately carved marble mantelpiece – he could distinguish oak leaves and the same acorn than the portal.

Interestingly, the wall facing the door was decorated with tapestries, alternating with two renaissance windows. The tapestries on the left and on the right represented respectively a hunting party and a landscape of meadows with cattle. Very fashionable subjects, but he was more used to seeing them represented in painting than in tapestries, and this amused him greatly. The one in the middle was different and simpler in the subject represented. It did not feature a scene, but a locked cage containing a single bird. A nightingale he would dare say. There was a pattern of anemone flowers around it, forming a frame running on the edges. He wondered when the tapestries were put inside the house. They seemed made for the room’s dimensions. Not that it was of any import, though.

The air in the room was fresh and clean, and it was certainly the perfect place to sit in on hot summer days, he imagined.

 

“I came to open the windows every morning, but I have not cleaned anything. I did not want to misplace something that Master Benjamin would need later.”

 

Bell had entered after him. He had felt her presence behind his back as he was scanning the room but had not commented on it, focused as he was in judging the new space. She was probably not entirely comfortable with letting a complete stranger alone in her master’s study, no matter how good his intentions seemed to be. He could not blame her. In fact, he did not mind her staying in the room as he was searching it. It did not impede his work, and he could have more questions for her.

 

“It is most fortunate for my searching that nothing has been moved.”

 

He then proceeded to pace the room, still scanning it with his eagle-like stare in the hopes of catching some detail that would feel misplaced or odd and would indicate Benjamin Baggins’s state of mind when he had left his house.

Nothing seemed unusual as compared to what those sort of rooms typically looked like. There were books on the shelves, a pile of them stacked on the desk, another pile on the coffee table by the fireplace, even one lone book that had been abandoned on an armchair. Papers were also to be found lying on any surface available, but the quills and inkwell were carefully aligned on the desk. Lord Baggins was a productive but tidy enough mind, or so it seemed. He would have to read the papers later, and the sheer number of them was already giving him a headache. Would it be improper to ask Bell for some tea while he was acquainting himself with their content?

 

He paused to look at two portraits, oval in form, which were hung above the fireplace. On one, a man with hair a light shade of brown, artificially curled, and sideburns to complete the ensemble. He was not per se a handsome fellow, but he looked like a fashionable young man, with his cream-coloured tailcoat and white cravat, and had friendly and open traits to compensate for his want of beauty. On the other, a woman with remarkable black hair and fair completion, her hair styled as fashionably as the man, had a light of intelligence in the eyes and a kind smile on her face. She was wearing the sort of white dress that were common in the first decade of the century. His own mother had worn the same sort of dress, he remembered. They were highly fashionable, and thought they looked plain compared to the ball gowns of their own days, their value resided in their perfect realisation and the quality of the fabric. Gowns these days tended to be for show more than good quality, though he was probably not the best judge of fashion himself.

He were glancing at the two figures when Bell appeared at his side, answering his silent question.

 

“Lord Benjamin and Lady Belladonna. The Master’s parents.”

“I see.”

“I was named after her. My mother was her maid and followed her when she married. She was a wonderful person, and a real Lady no matter what people thought.”

 

She sounded pensive and there was a melancholy in her voice that he identified and connected to instantly. He turned to her, considering her kind face a moment.

 

“I am sorry, Mrs Gamgee. It must have been a great loss.”

“It was. But don’t worry about that Mister Oakenshield.”

 

She tried to smile in her cheery manner, but he could see that it was strained.

 

“There is enough to worry about with Master Benjamin.”

 

He did not know what to respond to this, nor what to do beside nodding in agreement and looking at his feet for a second or two. Which is how he caught sight of something from the corner of his eye. It was in the fireplace, half buried in the ashes. He would have missed it if he had not looked down at this angle. He bent to retrieve it, extracting tongs from his breast pocket to snatch it. A piece of paper. Strange. Someone had tried to get rid of the paper by burning it, and he was ready to bet on Benjamin Baggins considering the circumstances.

 

“What were you doing there?”

 

He was muttering to himself, of course. It was a habit he had developed in his career, when the hours spent examining objects after objects would grow long and lonely. He was holding the tongs up to his face to examine the new thing. Fine grain of paper, of a good quality and probably expensive. Nothing on one of the sides, but a curvy and elegant calligraphy on the other.

 

“Maybe you should go skating on the ice as well.”

 

A gasp came from behind his back when he read the words on the paper out loud, making him turn around fast and almost trip. Bell had her hand to her mouth, eyes wide and shocked. He had forgotten her presence.

 

“Who would dare… write this to Master Benjamin? Who would be so inconsiderate-?”

“What do you mean? What does this refer to?”

“Oh, Mister Oakenshield! The ice!”

 

She looked ready to burst into tears or a fit of anger. Maybe both at the same time. He shook his head to show that he still did not understand what she was talking about.

 

“The carriage in which the Lord and Lady were when they died! It slipped on the ice!”

 

He remained silent, shocked as well by the revelation. Was that it? The reason for Benjamin Baggins’s sudden vanishing? Someone had actioned a trigger to remind him of his parents’ death? Or maybe it was a threat, and he had run away.

 

To hide or to meet his end was the question now.

 


	2. Chapter 2

He had to take Bell downstairs, shaken as she was by the discovery. They were in the kitchen now, and it was one like any other one would find in an immensely old Manor or Castle, he imagined. Spacious, with the same whitewashed walls as the study, and a fireplace of gigantic proportions where countless roasts must have been prepared in the old days. They were sited at a long table of solid wood with a warm and comforting tea which delicate smell floated in the room around them. It was only when taking the first sip that he realised just how much he had needed to sit down and rest. The memory of the morning’s exhaustion and anxiety was creeping from the back of his mind where he had managed to keep it, albeit not with the same force as during breakfast.

 

Alfred Gamgee was siting across from him, an arm framing his wife’s shoulders and trying to comfort her. Bell was still deeply saddened but also shaken by a rightful anger on her Master’s behalf. Her soft features were reddened by it, her eyes sending flames. He wondered what would happen to those who had wronged Lord Baggins if she ever found them out. Certainly something terrible, and he would not be the one to throw the stone at her. He pretended to be interested in the pattern adorning the tea cup to give them the time to recollect themselves and sort out their thoughts. Little doves were flying in shades of blue, almost purple, porcelain around the cup and on the saucer.

Bell looked at him at last, her eyes wild.

 

“I don’t understand. Master Benjamin is a good man. Who can want to pain him with this memory, and wish him this fate?”

 

Alfred nodded at his wife’s words to show that he shared her state of wonder. He was a rather short man but strongly built, obviously accustomed to manual and tedious work. His skin showed that his job led him to be outside a lot, which was confirmed when he presented himself as the groundskeeper of the estate. He seemed to be a force of nature despite his height. He possessed a calm demeanour however, which translated into a soft voice and placid gestures. There was a kind of practical and down-to-earth wisdom in his words, too. All in all, he was someone one could trust and rely on. And, just like his wife, he seemed oblivious to the big bad world’s potential threats.

As for himself, he had seen enough mean-spirited people in his career to know that, unfortunately, being spotless does not prevent one from receiving this sort of attack. If there was such a thing as a spotless person of course, which he was personally far from believing in, but this was beside the point.

 

“It’s worse than we thought. We thought Master Benjamin went to do some business that was just none of our concern, or that he didn’t want us to know. We thought it strange, sure, but nothing…”

 

Alfred’s voice faltered, and it was obviously hard for him to control the concern in his voice.

 

“Nothing to be afraid of. Or so we believed. But this paper! If someone threatened the Master and he is in danger… and we’ve done nothing to help!”

“It is not your fault, Mr Gamgee. You had no reason to believe anything of the sort would happen. Beside, Lord Baggins is a grown man, and he made the conscious decision not to tell you anything. You and your wife are not to blame.”

“It’s very kind of you to say that, sir, but my family has served the Baggins family for generations now. It doesn’t matter if there’s any fault on my part, I do not want to live with the knowledge that I may have prevented something terrible happening to Master Benjamin and did nothing.”

“I understand.”

 

Silence fell over them for a while. He did not know if it was out of nervousness or because there was nothing else to add. It was not tense, but there was a certain melancholy that seemed to emanate from their group. He would have let them enjoy this moment of silence longer, but he had a job to do and felt that they could not afford to lose even more time considering what their discovery had led them to believe.

 

“Mr Gamgee? Your wife told me you saw Lord Baggins before he left the Manor, the day he disappeared.”

“I did. On the path, by the gazebo.”

“Did you notice something in particular? Did his behaviour seem… odd?”

“Well, he seemed… preoccupied. As if there was something on his mind. But it happens often. Owning lands, having a position, all those sort of things can be a burden at times.”

“So you did not think this strange.”

“No. He told me there was something important he needed to do. I thought it dangerous to go with that weather, but he seemed adamant.”

“What thing did he need to do?”

“He didn’t say. But I thought it was something in the city, or perhaps even in London.”

“Had he been to London often in the past?”

“Not since…”

 

He took his head in his hands, his shoulder slacking. His wife awoke from her own meditative state and patted his arm gently, turning to finish his answer for him.

 

“Not since his parents’ death. He used to go with Lady Belladonna whenever she had some errands to run in London. It wasn’t often, but frequent enough to be associated with her memory I suppose. He stopped going after they died.”

“So… why would he have any business there?”

“I don’t know. You cannot avoid London forever in his position. It has been reproached to him before.”

“By the Sackville-Baggins family, for example?”

 

Bell nodded slowly, but looked at him with a frown. He thought best to give her some explanation.

 

“I had a… rather interesting conversation with Mrs Lobelia yesterday. I went to see her before coming here, while I was still in town. She commented on Lord Baggins being… rather reclusive.”

“Please, Mister Oakenshield, don’t make any assumption on the Master’s character based on what she told you. She’s been envious for many years, and she’s a terrible gossip. I know I shouldn’t say that, but bless my soul it is the truth, and she has no right-”

 

He held his hands in the air in front of him to appease her and smiled.

 

“Peace, Mrs Gamgee. I am not inclined to believe anything she has told me about Lord Benjamin’s personality.”

“I’m glad of it, sir.”

 

It was not entirely true. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins’s words held some truth in them, which was confirmed by the Gamgees and his own observations. Benjamin Baggins was indeed reclusive – or ‘unsocial’ as she had put it – considering his position in society. It was rather uncommon for those people to exclude themselves from any sort of mundane event or not hold some themselves, and to have no interests in politics or such considerations. To remain unmarried at almost forty when one is the Lord of a domain and possessions of such a considerable size was also an oddity. He himself had been the object of speculation and plans of marriage before his family’s ruin, and he could not even pretend to any amount of nobility.

He knew however to make the difference between facts and judgment. The facts told him that Benjamin Baggins voluntarily refrained from any activity that involved being social. But to form any supposition on whether it made him a good or a bad person, like the lady had done, would have been a mistake, not to mention an insult. He would not allow himself to make such an unprofessional fault.

 

“What makes you think that he was heading to the city, then?”

 

Alfred finally looked up from his hands and scratched his head pensively.

 

“Well, it seemed important, what with him needing to go out in the rain. There is nothing around here that could be that important. I thought he was going to see his lawyer in Gloucester, maybe.”

“Right. Hm… you said he was close to the gazebo? Why is that so?”

“Oh, if you follow the path further after the gazebo, you’ll find the stables.”

“Is one of the horses missing?”

“Dales’ Hopper is. The Master’s favourite horse, and a fair racer.”

 

He hummed in reply, his mind quick to compile and order the new information. Lord Baggins went by horse. He wanted to go a long way then, or at least long enough a way that he could not simply walk. He understood why Alfred had thought of Gloucester. It was far enough to need a horse. The content of the paper he found could induce a visit to the lawyer, too. It could induce a lot more possibilities, and not necessarily in Gloucester, but this one was as likely as any other. He could not exclude it, but he would need more information and hints before he could form any further hypothesis.

He resolved that he had to see the path and the stables. They might not give him much information, but it would be a start to perhaps understand where Lord Baggins had gone and his state of mind. Alfred seemed to think as much when he formed the idea to him, and the duo went that way after gulping down the rest of their cup.

 

It was a fine enough afternoon, though it was nearer its end than its beginning. He had not realised how much time he had spent in the Manor until he went out and saw the position of the sun in the sky. Well, he could always look for an inn in a nearby village to stay the night. It would be too late to catch any train for London, let alone a cab for Gloucester, and he still had many things to see before he could go back to the metropolis satisfied.

 

Alfred Gamgee was leading the way down the path, the gardens smelling faintly of roses and freshly cut grass. It was a very pleasant walk, clouded as it was by the professional matter at hand. Alfred was pointing at this and that thing, telling anecdotes about the Baggins family and their past, none of them worth noting for the case but interesting nonetheless. The gazebo was a charming little structure that overlooked an artificial pond of modest proportions, but wide enough to shelter a family of ducks and beautiful waterlilies. It was all very picturesque, even for the unaccustomed eyes of a city-dweller like himself.

The path then bent around a group of trees and shrubs, and they came in sight of the stables at last. They were relatively big in size, built in bricks and solid wood, three rectangles linked together and forming a vast U around a paved court. If his estimations were correct, they could house a fair amount of horses. The Baggins family must have been fond of those animals at one point or another.

 

“Lady Belladonna was a fairly good rider,” Alfred commented as if guessing the direction of his thoughts, “she was charmed the first time she visited the stables, and it was a happy place for her. She only dropped her riding sessions when pregnant.”

 

He listened to Alfred’s anecdote, humming again to show his interest, but he was more impressed by the architecture around him. He had always had an eye for structures and volumes. The stables inspired him greatly, but he felt it would be more polite not to have the conversation be one-sided.

 

“Had the Lord and Lady any other child beside Lord Benjamin?”

“No, sadly. The Lady got pregnant only once. It was a touchy subject for her. I heard she wanted more children, being from a large family herself.”

 

He nodded, following Alfred inside the building while adding a few traits to his mental picture of the Baggins family. The building’s floor was of stones, and there was an upper floor of large wooden plank above their heads to stock the hay. It seemed far grander inside than from outside. This building was bigger than a lot of poor people’s housing in the City. Why, it was far bigger than the house he lived in himself, and not only his modest apartment but the whole building. Of course he remembered a time when he lived in an awfully big mansion himself, but that was a long time ago and the remembrance only added to his bitterness. To think of horses better treated than human beings. What a pity this world was.

 

Oblivious to his musing, Alfred had taken him to an empty box where the missing horse had lodged until the fateful day. He looked around the box, trying to find something of interest, but as he had expected, it did not give him any clues, and he exited the stables feeling cross for having lost his time when he knew he would find nothing.

He looked around from the little paved yard. There was another path that seemed to lead through the tall trees, opposite to the one they had taken from the house. If Lord Benjamin had not gone back towards the house, where someone was bound to have seen him, he must have gone by that other path. To whence, he did not know, but perhaps he could find someone who had seen him that day. Benjamin could not have vanished into thin air, and someone ought to have seen him and his horse, he reckoned.

 

“To whence does that path lead?”

“The village. Hobbiton.”

“Right, I will follow the path there and see if someone has seen anything.”

“Why? You don’t think of it! It is late already, and the path is a long and winding walk. And then you’ll find every house closed and people barred inside for the night. It’s of no use going now.”

“Well, I will still be able to find an inn I suppose, and start afresh tomorrow.”

“There isn’t one. I’m afraid our little countryside does not see enough people to need it. The closest inn is in Winchcombe.”

“Shame. I do not think there will be any coach available now.”

“Don’t worry, Mister Oakenshield. We’ll set you a room in the Manor for the night. I imagine you’ll have more things to look at there, and then you can have a nice rest.”

“That is most kind of you, Mister Gamgee.”

“Anything for someone willing to go looking after the Master.”

“I am only here on someone’s will. It is a job for me,” he felt compelled to remind him.

 “The Doctor, I know. I can’t say I like his kind lots, but he has never given me any reason for distrust, and my old mother always said it is a sin to judge others before knowing them, though I am often guilty of it. But what I know is that you are here, and have been more efficient this afternoon than us in two months.”

“You could not know.”

“I had my worries. What? Going in such a hurry and without giving news? But I did not want to intrude on the Master’s private business, and I know my Bell gets all sorts of tragedies inside her head for nothing, so I didn’t want her to fuss. But now I get the idea that I should have, and someone has before me, and it’s not normal.”

 

There was nothing he could answer to that. He understood Alfred’s sense of duty, and respected his loyalty greatly, but he, a mere stranger, had nothing more to tell him.

 

They came back to the Manor, and Bell went, as quick and discreet as a mouse, to prepare a room for him. He felt reluctant to ask more of them then they had already done, but he saw the logic and practicality in Alfred’s idea, and that it was beneficial to him. He went back to the study to pick up the reading of Lord Benjamin’s papers that he had let down to comfort Bell. This way at least he would have the feeling of doing something productive and not abusing their generosity.

There were very few things and documents that caught his attention. Most of what he found were account books and other administrative papers. Two things made an impression on him, however. The first was a letter addressed to Lord Benjamin. The penmanship was neat and tidy, if not a bit too round and unnecessarily extravagant for his own tastes.

 

_My Dear Cousin,_

_Father has sent a letter for me yesterday, and I feel it is going to be the very last from now on. He is adamant that I should take the responsibility of my decision fully and would not see reason no matter how many letters I sent to beg for his pardon and pity, or to plead with his rationality. My desperate pleading and your generous mediation have sadly amounted to naught, and I am informed by this last letter that I have been effectively barred from his Will._

_It left me in such a state of nervousness that I had no idea who else to contact. I am very ashamed to ask more from you, with all that you have already done for me and Prim, but you know the baby is soon to arrive and the place you obtained for me so kindly has not paid yet enough to buy the necessary furniture._

_I wish so earnestly that I did not have to ask you, but I am not above begging for my wife and child. If only father would renounce his prideful wrath and pardon my marrying so low, then everything would be different. I know my kind sister would help us if she had the power, but father is too angered, and I told her not to compromise her position on my account._

_You find me in a most humble state before you, and are sure to possess the only things I am in position of giving back to you, that is my unconditional love._

_Yours truly,_

_Andrew Baggins._

 

This young man – it did not take a genius to understand how young the man was – seemed in a rather precarious position, in which he apparently found himself after marrying a young lady of a lower social class. He had to admire the kid’s firm resolution, though of course he pitied the state it put him in. Poor lad, and with a baby on the way no less. Benjamin Baggins had obviously decided to help him to the best of his ability, and this cast a favourable light on his character. He was perhaps not as indifferent to the outside world as people wanted to make him look. He seemed a generous benefactor to this youth, if anything, not insensitive to his torment and not sharing his class’s prejudices toward misalliances. Or he had more affection for his young cousin than contempt for his choice of life. One way or another, this was greatly generous of him and contradicted any accusation of misanthropy or cold-heartedness that the words of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had implied. He sincerely doubted that said esteemed lady would have done much to help the youth if he had gone to her.

 

The second object that caught his attention was found as he was considering the pile of books he had spotted earlier on the coffee table. What he had missed in his previous look was the silver frame and the photograph in it. It was of a man, well in his thirties and perhaps nearing forty. He looked agreeable, though with an air of someone who knew what to do with his life and would not be bullied into anything he had not decided himself. His clothes were very elegant and he wore them well, although they were not of the latest fashion. He did not seem to mind, and they were becoming him anyway.

A quick glance at the two portraits above the fireplace confirmed his suspicion. Benjamin Baggins the youngest shared his father’s hair and eye shape, but he had inherited his mother’s bearing as well as her resolute and smart expression. Interesting. He was not exactly handsome by most people’s standards, but there was something in the man’s features that appealed to him, though he could not put his finger on what. Perhaps the firmness behind the apparent politeness. The hidden veins of iron.

 

So this was Lord Baggins, he thought, and it occurred to him that he had not cared to see any portrait of the man before this moment, even though it would have been easy for him to put his hand on a picture if he had wanted to. It had not seemed relevant at the time. He usually dismissed the idea of seeing any individual’s _physique_. He was more interested in their thoughts, which was more relevant in his occupation. Beside, looks can deceive, or rather focus one’s reasoning onto the wrong subject. But this was a disappearance, and having an idea of what the disappeared looked like could have been useful.  Was it out of habits that he had forgotten? Or maybe the resentment he had felt toward Doctor Greyheim had involuntarily tinted the object of his searching and made it seem accessory, in a way. He could not tell exactly. He did have a certain temper and tendency to be thick-headed when he put his mind to it. Well, now he knew what Lord Baggins looked like.

 

He replaced the photograph on the table and gazed at the fire for a long while, musing and sorting his thoughts. Such was the situation in which Bell found him when she came to tell him that his room was ready, if he wanted to refresh himself before supper. She had regained her previous cheerfulness, thought he caught a lingering melancholy in her eyes when they both exited the room. He did not think it was a trick of the light, but she was apparently eager to hide it and he certainly did not press.

 

“Did you find more helpful information?”

“Nothing as important, I think,” he paused a moment then, before asking abruptly, “who exactly is Andrew Baggins for Lord Benjamin?”

 

He was glancing at the portraits that graced the walls with interest as they were proceeding, the declining light of the day making them appear more acutely and casting a striking contrast onto them. Lords with severe features and attitudes, and ladies in voluminous dresses and stately decorum. All of them so rigid and intense that they looked almost ridiculous. But who was he to judge them, mere objects of social construct and pressure. Of course, they were at the better and more comfortable end of the heavy and corseted social ladder, but they were trapped in the self-fulfilling prophecy of it just the same.

Bell answered as they were walking the length of the corridor as slowly as earlier in the afternoon.

 

“A cousin. The son of a first cousin of Lord Benjamin… the father I mean.”

“Ah, a cousin once removed of the current Lord Benjamin, then.”

“Yes.”

 

He tried to file the information in his mental archives. Family trees always are very confusing to understand, but he himself had a rather extensive family with various far removed cousin that were considered to be almost brothers. He was not a stranger to the notion of extended families, in short.

 

“Poor Master Andrew,” Bell sighed in the meantime, “he married a nice little woman, but his father was angry.”

“I was led to believe, yes. What sort of woman is the wife?”

“Not a mercenary one, if that’s what you think. That’s what his father thought. But no.  She is very honest, very kind, but a strong will all the same. That’s for the best. Mister Andrew is a rather mellow lad. He needs someone to rouse him a bit, I believe. She’s good. Too bad the old Master Baggins, his father, is… hm…”

“Deaf to the idea of a marriage between classes?”

“Yes.”

 

They were ascending the stairs by this time, and he found himself following her along the gallery of the first floor, which was prolonged by a large corridor, with even more portraits than on the ground floor. More of whom he believed were Bagginses of old were gazing down at him, and he could imagine them whispering among them about this intruder pacing their halls. He shook his head, turning back to the conversation.

 

“Is Andrew, or rather his father, the closest relative of Lord Baggins after Otto?”

“He is.”

“But if the father suppressed him from his will?”

“Oh! I don’t think-”

 

She stopped there, both in her speech and in her movement, which caused him to almost walk into her. She turned to him, with a twinkle of amusement in her eyes, genuinely happier for the first time since the afternoon.

 

“I don’t think Master Benjamin will forget the lad in his.”

“You think Lord Baggins will leave something for Andrew in his will?”

“Well, it’s not like Master Benjamin to be unprepared, and Andrew always was his favourite cousin. He doesn’t like Master Otto, and he thinks Andrew’s father a… No, I prefer not repeating his words. They are not proper.”

 

He let out a loud laugh at her expression, half amused and half remembering herself, perfectly plastered on her round face. He sobered though, a thought crossing his mind suddenly, like lightening.

 

“Mrs Gamgee… do you think this is why Lord Baggins left so abruptly?”

“What for?”

“To change his will. Your husband said he thought Lord Baggins would go to his lawyer, and he received a letter which could be considered a threat, after all.”

“It could be. He told us about Master Andrew’s letter, poor soul. It was a week before he left, though.”

“He could have thought about it, but the message we found this afternoon would have… precipitated his decision, or force him to act quickly.”

“Yes! It’s like him to do this sort of things. He is very resolute when he sets his mind on things.”

 

He was glad to hear the confirmation, both of his theory and of what he had thought of Lord Baggins’s portrait. He would still need to prove those with facts, however. Especially the former.

 

“I will need to see this lawyer. I had thought of doing so this morning, but I wanted to come here first to get an idea of the situation and know what to ask the man. Now I think I have enough information for this purpose.”

“I will give you the address.”

“Thank you.”

 

She opened a door to the left, and they entered what happened to be a neat and beautiful bedroom. The various furniture were of solid wood, dark and polished. It comprised the bed, wide and with four twisted pillars at its angles, with two bedside tables, a low sofa and two armchairs, and a console. All of these belonged to the same set and had obviously been created specifically for the room given their proportions. To counter the darkness of the wood, the bed had a canopy of thick fabric in soft clear blues with lovely forget-me-not flowers stitched on it, which was answered to by that of the low sofa and curtains, in similar tones. He had always liked blue, in all its forms, and it was especially fitting for a bedroom, he thought. It was appeasing. The room was spacious enough but the size remained comfortable for a single person, not too vast nor oppressive. It was comfortable, yes, that was the word, and Bell had lighted a fire in the little fireplace that stood in one of the walls. It was clear that the room had been made to accommodate guests but had not welcome many for a long time. It felt slightly forlorn.

Bell had probably spent the time he spent at the stables and study dusting everything for his sake, and he felt once again that he was imposing on the couple. The maid smiled at him with a satisfied look on her face, however, and the feeling subdued a bit.

 

“Thank you, Mrs Gamgee.”

“Don’t mention it, Mr Oakenshield.”

 

And with a last smile in his direction and a small curtsy, she exited the room, closing the door behind her and leaving him by himself and in complete silence once again. He stood unmoving for a minute or two, casting another look around his position and taking in the sight of the ancient furniture, hoping to see other details that would inform him about the place and its proprietor. He could note nothing else of interest, however, and reported his attention on his own possessions.

His suitcase had been placed by Bell on the console. He crossed the room in long strides to stand in front of it. He did not open it at first, just looking at the worn leather with vacant eyes, scratching it lightly with his nail. His mind was racing towards other considerations.

 

All things considered, he had learnt very little about Lord Benjamin Baggins himself. He already knew before coming to Bag End Manor that he was a bachelor and that his parents had died when he was a child. He knew that his closest relative was his cousin and Alfred had simply confirmed that there had never been even the possibility of siblings. What had he really learnt? Only hints on his personality, no tangible proof.

If Benjamin Baggins lived recluse from society, he was not a misanthropist. The loyalty and affection of his domestics showed that he was well loved by the people close to him. The circle of people he allowed near him was indeed small, but the attachment strong. His attitude towards his young cousin also spoke of a generous man who was willing to act when he could. It also spoke of a man who favoured justice and fairness to hierarchy and prejudice. He was also, if his actions and Bell’s words were true, very resolute once he had made a decision. All of this was more than nothing, of course, but it was still meagre. He was already more lucky in regards to the chain of events and facts of the man’s disappearance.

He sighed, and turned heels towards a washing basin, leaving the suitcase without actually opening it. He would know the following day if his assumption was right concerning Lord Baggins’s will. For now, there was very little more to learn.

 

He washed his face and hands, trying to clean away the traces of fatigue he felt, but with little result. He then descended in the kitchen, finding his way with some difficulty, to dine with the housekeepers. This was a silent affair, all of them feeling the weight of the disappeared looming over them but none having anything else to say about it. He himself was not naturally inclined to talk a great deal, and his solitary lifestyle had not changed that. Silence therefor suited him. He stole away upstairs again after eating, directly going to his room to seek the company of his own thoughts.

 

He opened the window. It had a view on the garden, and the smell of the evening began to fill the room. There still was the sweet musk of roses and the smell of cut grass of earlier. But now there was something else too, something he could not identify specifically but that he could only call ‘the twilight’. It was heavy, a bit oppressing, but also soothing in a way. The moment when things were between civilisation and wilderness. He had always dreaded those moments, when the last rays of the sun were shining and then disappearing. It was like an opportunity missed, a promise that evaporated into the air never to be seized again. A door that was closing forever. It was sad, infinitely so, but strangely reassuring. If a door was closing, it meant that another was opening somewhere, his mother used to say. She had always had a practical mind and knew to let things go when they were lost, in order to catch the new opportunities that were coming. He was more like his father, in this regard. It was hard for them to let go of the past. He had tried, and there were things that did not hurt as much anymore as they used to, but there were still many areas of darkness on which he had not managed to shine a new light. He preferred leaving them behind closed doors and carefully avoided opening them. Maybe, at one point, they would open on their own. Then it would mean that the time had come to reflect on the things behind. But not before that, no.

 

He staid a moment there, observing the landscape stretching in front of his eyes in the dim light that descended beyond the hills. He thought he could see Hobbiton, on the other side of the weald. A few lights in a very small borough that were going off one after the other as the inhabitants were probably going to sleep. In London, the evening would just begin, and there would be many activities for who wanted. Dinner parties, the opera and theatres, among other things. He was not a night bird himself, but he had had to stay up late and mingle with the night crowd on some occasions, with the purpose of solving a case. He had found the son of a city banker in an opium den and taken him back home. He had discovered who was trying to frighten the new shining star of the drama scene – a jealous and ambitious rival, of course. And there was that one time he had come too late to the right conclusion, and the corpse of the unfortunate cavalry captain had been dragged from the Thames under his own desolate eyes. He would never forget the features of the soldier, his mustachios and vacant eyes. He did not want to forget them. They were a lesson and a warning for the future.

Yes, London was a nocturnal and dangerous place. But here in Gloucestershire, nothing stirred after dark, if one excepted the insects and their quiet humming, or the birds that went from tree to bush in search of their food.

 

There was nothing left for him to do but go to bed and try to find sleep.

 

He spent a rather uneventful and quiet night considering that he was not sleeping in his own bed and that the day had been full of discoveries. He did not toss in his sleep, did not wake with a nightmarish fever, did not dream of fires and horrors. In fact, he saw in his sleep the face of Lord Baggins. He was smiling and it seemed to him that the Lord was talking to him, was trying to say something. He could not make out what, but this did not make him anxious nor afraid. He woke up feeling refreshed and with just a fragment of the dream left in his mind, intriguing but not troubling him.

He dressed up, already thinking of the day ahead and wondering in what order he should proceed. He really wanted to see the lawyer, but did not want to dismiss exploring the neighbourhood of the Manor altogether. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had been clear about what opinion people had of Lord Baggins, and he wanted to see if her opinion was confirmed by the facts. Furthermore, if Benjamin Baggins had disappeared before reaching Gloucester – a possibility he was already toying with given the terrible weather of that day – he did not want to miss any clues by rushing to the big town so soon. A dark voice in his head whispered that if the people of Hobbiton were indeed adverse to their Lord, then maybe there could be something more terrible at work in these parts.

This was not the sort of thought he wished to linger on for too long, but he could not completely ignore it.

 

 

The night seemed to have refreshed Bell Gamgee as well, and he was careful to avoid any mention of his own worries as he was taking his breakfast in her company. What good was there in frightening her further than what she was already feeling since the previous day? She was chatting amicably, and told him that her husband was takins his daily walk around the garden to see if anything was in need of repair or working, but would be there shortly in case he needed to be driven somewhere. He repeated to her his will to see Hobbiton and talk with the locals, and she fell silent for a minute, eyeing him gravely.

 

“You know your job and what you need to do,” she said at last, “but I must warn you that people here are not used to strangers. I don’t know if they’ll talk to you at all, but they sure will not reveal anything significant.”

“And yet I need to ask those questions.”

“I guess so. Doesn’t change the fact that nobody will answer, though.”

 

He passed his hand through his hair, frustrated but understanding her point all too well. There had to be something that could be done, however. He needed whatever fragment of information he could get, and from as many people he could talk too, if only to confirm absolutely and without any doubt the chain of events. Suspicions were one thing, confirmation and proof were another.

 

“Bell, you know these people. Do you think they would answer you?”

“I… suppose,” she stopped to think, “if I know what you want to know, I could ask around for you. There is no harm in trying, anyway.”

 

He sighed. This solution was not ideal, but he had to admit that Bell had more chances than him to obtain some answers from the locals, and so he had to rely on her for this. Beside, they could gain precious time. While he went to Gloucester to see the lawyer, she would get information about Lord Baggins’s whereabouts on the fateful day of his disappearance. They could be grateful for this half day gained later. The soldier, with his mustachios and vacant eyes, flashed in front of his eyes again. He shook his head to chase them.

 

“My questions are relatively simple. We need to know if anybody saw Lord Baggins the morning he left, and if so, what direction he went. Perhaps also whether he talked to anybody on his way.”

“I see. I need to go to the market this morning, so I can ask there. It’ll seem harmless enough.”

“Good. Meanwhile, I will go and talk to the lawyer.”

 

She had prepared the name and address of the lawyer for him on a little card. They talked some more about the questions she had to ask down in the market, but he trusted her judgment. She had a sort of quiet wisdom, or perhaps an enhanced common sense. She would know what to ask and how, he was sure of that. He was just annoyed he could not come with her and see – or rather, hear – for himself. But in rural areas, indeed, people do not take kindly to strangers, especially when they come poking their noses into what they consider their business. Bell was his best chance at gaining information without the villagers being suspicious.

It was settled, and in less than a quarter of an hour, they were both climbing into the carriage driven by Alfred. And another twenty minutes later, Bell was exiting it in Hobbiton, wishing him luck in Gloucester before disappearing into the little crowd of villagers and peasants _en route_ to the town’s market.

 

As for himself, he continued on the road, still driven by Alfred. They did not talk much. The groundkeeper seemed passably nervous, which he could understand. He was not particularly keen on talking either, anyway. Many ideas were floating in his head, many scenarii flooding his thoughts. He forced himself to breathe evenly, and started to sort them out, to dismiss the ridiculous or impossible one, and to assess those which could have been. However, there was nothing more to think upon without the information that the day would bring, so he ended up putting this activity aside to focus on the task ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I shouldn't take too long to update" said I, a week before starting my second semester and being drowned under university work. ^^"  
> But anyway, better late than never I suppose, and here is the second chapter, at long last. I hope you'll like it. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Ahem, hello.  
> I have a hell-tone of fics to update, including the last chapter of one to finish writing, but my brain decided that I needed to work on this. So here we go.  
> This is probably my most ambitious fic so far, and I think I edited it at least 10 times. I'm quite happy with it, but I'm sure I'll find a billion mistakes very soon. The writer's curse.  
> Now's a good time to add that English is not my first language, even though my level is respectable (I'm an English civilization and literature student, so there's that). So there might be some typos or incorrect use of expressions.
> 
> I have 12k written for this AU already, so let's say that chapter 2 is well on its way. I initially wanted to finish it all before posting, but I'm an idiot who tend to stop in the middle and say 'why bother, it'll never work' so... all I'm saying is: sometimes, you got to kick your own butt and force destiny. Or some shit.  
> Please comment if you like it, or find some aspects nice, or think some stuff could be improved. It sounds cliché to say that, but a writer does need feedback to know what to do next, or if an idea is worth the work. So I'd like to know.
> 
> Thank you, and hope you enjoy.


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